Title: Clutch (Disciples’ Daughters #1)
Author: Drew Elyse
Genre: Contemporary/MC Romance
Release Date: September 15, 2015
Once a Disciple, forever a Disciple.
Cami was born into the Savage Disciples MC, but she ventured out to build a life of her own away from the club. She’s engaged now, living a new life despite missing the bikers that raised her. Overall, she’s… fine.
Sure, fine. She’s fine with the fiancé who is more interested in position and image than the woman in his life. She’s fine with the fake people around and the suffocating passive aggression. She’s fine with the fact that she is turning to drugs to self-medicate.
A Disciple will fight like a savage for what he wants.
When Gauge tags along to visit his club brother’s daughter, he can’t believe the two women he meets: the fiery daughter of a biker and the puppet with the blank affect. And yet, they’re both Cami.
He sees the fire beneath surface, and he wants to watch it burn. He wants to rip away the man smothering her like a wet blanket. He wants to see the flames consume that cookie-cutter future-wife facade to the ground and dance with her in the flames.
When this biker clutches onto a Disciple’s daughter, there is no letting go.
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Speaking of Tank, he and the rest of the boys would be back within the hour, which meant there was probably going to be a reasonable amount of awkward around the clubhouse for a while. Sure, I’d gotten the man’s permission to go after his daughter, but approving the concept and seeing the result weren’t exactly the same thing.
“Hey, baby. What are you doing?”
Speak of the devil. Cami strode into the main area of the clubhouse in a pair of tiny cut-off shorts and the Disciples’ Supporter tank she’d been wearing when I got back from Sturgis. Damn, she looked fucking good. So good, I wanted to drag her back into my room, strip everything but that tank top off, and take her. She moved to sit next to me on the couch, but I reached out and grabbed her hips to settle her onto my lap.
“Love this shirt, babe. We’ll have to get you some more,” I told her.
She leaned in and pressed a kiss to my lips while I stroked her exposed thighs. “Glad you like it,” she said, but I muffled the end of it when I chased after her sweet lips.
“You two oughta knock that shit off before Tank gets back,” Daz warned as he sat on one of the nearby couches.
I flipped him my middle finger, trying to hold Cami still as she pulled away. “You aren’t going anywhere,” I growled. Then, I looked around her. “As for you, asshole, she’s my old lady. I can do as I fuckin’ want.”
“All you fuckers with your old ladies. Why shackle yourself when there’s so much sweet pussy out there?” Daz kicked back and grinned like he was imagining some of that pussy getting busy with him right there.
“I’ll ignore the inherent insult in that,” Cami sassed.
“No insult meant, Cam,” he shot back. “I’d gladly see how sweet you are, but I ain’t gonna keep sampling the same dish when there’s a whole buffet in front of me.”
I grabbed the nearest non-fragile item—a pillow from the end of the couch—and chucked it at him. “You talk about my woman’s pussy again, I’ll fuckin’ make you wish you were back in lockup.”
“And that,” Daz kept right on. “You spend too much time with the same pussy, you start to turn into one.”
I was about to shuffle Cami off my lap and show him just how much of a pussy I was when she spoke. “Hey, Daz?”
“When’s the last time you got laid?”
“Cami,” I interjected. I wasn’t liking where this conversation was headed. She shushed me.
“Last night,” he answered.
“Hmm,” she got a look on her face, like she was pondering. “Not bad. Gauge, baby, when’s the last time you got laid?”
I smirked. “You know the answer to that, darlin’.”
“You’re right.” She snapped her fingers like she just realized it, and I suppressed a chuckle. My woman was a goof ball, and it was fucking adorable. “It was this morning. Once when we woke up, and then again in the shower. Not to mention, everything last night. Wow. So, since the last time Daz got laid, we’ve probably had sex…what? Four, maybe five times?”
Daz laughed and shook his head. “Your woman’s a fucking smart ass.”
“Don’t I know it.”
Cami feigned being affronted. “I was simply trying to consider the validity of Daz’s argument,” she snapped.
“Were you on the debate team in high school?” I asked.
“No,” she stated emphatically, then backtracked, “not for long, anyway.”
“I might have been asked to quit because of my ‘over-competitiveness’, ‘short temper’, and ‘inability to allow others to finish their arguments’. I mean, excuse me for not wanting to lose because Jerry Simmons’ talking points were always terrible and unsubstantiated. There was a reason he didn’t get into law school.”
Daz and I laughed before he said, “Don’t worry, you can start any spirited debate you want. I’ve got another we can tackle. Anal or vagin—”
“Alright, brother, you’re fuckin’ done,” I cut him off.
“Buzzkill,” he muttered, getting to his feet. “That’s alright. I’m going to find one of the girls and get her to make me a sandwich.”
“Seriously?” Cami called at his retreating back.
“Hey, I’m all about feminism. Especially a woman’s right to choose whatever lifestyle she wants. Particularly if that lifestyle involves her making me a fucking sandwich,” he shot back as he left.
“So you know,” Cami started, but I jumped in.
“You aren’t going to make me a sandwich on command?”
“Nope. I cook. I’ll make you pancakes, cupcakes—”
“Anything that’s not a cake?”
She gave me a glare. “I can cook most things relatively well. But if you want a sandwich, I think you’re solidly capable of that on your own.”
“Guess I’ll be cutting sandwiches out of my diet.”
She rolled her eyes. “Asshole.”
About The Author
When she isn’t writing, she can usually be found over-analyzing every line of a book, binge watching a series on Netflix, doing strange vocal warm ups before singing a variety of music styles, or screaming at the TV during a Chicago Blackhawks game.